


What We Didn't Say

by punkteddybear



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of War, labeled as stucky but it doesn't have to be read that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkteddybear/pseuds/punkteddybear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>God, everything was so fucked up. It was so fucked up, all of it. He shouldn’t have had to watch them bury his best friend. He shouldn’t have had to take that goddamn red, white, and blue flag in his hands, the weight of it nearly crushing him. He shouldn’t have had to do any of this, but he did. And he did it with his chin up and tears streaming down his face, with his entire body shaking from the weight of grief, with an empty space by his side where his best friend should have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Didn't Say

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, in advance

God, everything was so fucked up. It was so fucked up, all of it. He shouldn’t have had to watch them bury his best friend. He shouldn’t have had to take that goddamn red, white, and blue flag in his hands, the weight of it nearly crushing him. He shouldn’t have had to do any of this, but he did. And he did it with his chin up and tears streaming down his face, with his entire body shaking from the weight of grief, with an empty space by his side where his best friend should have been.

…

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Sorry.”

A pause.

“You’ll write to me?”

“Every goddamn day.”

“Good. Send me pictures too.”

“Of course, Buck.”

“Thanks.”  _ I love you _ .

…

Steve thought the hug would crush his already frail lungs, but he didn’t mind. It’d probably hurt less than Bucky leaving. He tried not to look too sad as he pulled away.

 

“I’m gonna miss you,” he choked out. He couldn’t trust himself to say more than a few words at a time.

“I’m gonna miss you too,” Bucky replied. “Take care of yourself.”

 

He hoped Steve knew the message behind those words.  _ Take care of yourself. Because if you don’t, I won’t be able to fix it. Don’t go out when it’s too cold, your lungs will fall apart and I won’t be next to you to put them back together. Buy yourself medicine if you have to. Don’t get into fights. I know, those guys are idiots, but that’s precisely why it’s not worth it. Be safe. _

Steve smiled, and Bucky knew he had gotten his point across.

 

“Please don’t go.”

Bucky inhaled sharply, the three words punching him in the gut. “Steve…”

Steve should his head quickly, stepping back. “I know. I know. Just…”

“Steve, I can’t do this. Not right now. Please,” Bucky pleaded.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“I have to go now. Okay? I have to go.”

“Okay. Be safe.”

“I’ll do my best. I’ll miss you Stevie.”

“You too Buck.”

 

One last hug, and James Buchanan Barnes dissolved into the throbbing mass of people with his beat up suitcase in tow.

…

_ Things are hard here. If you thought I was strong, you should look at some of the guys here! I swear, one guy’s biceps are as big as your head Stevie. We’re working. I’m getting stronger, I think. The exercises don’t make me throw up from exhaustion anymore. So that’s good. _

_ I miss you. Maybe I’ll be able to visit soon. _

…

_ It’s cold. My lungs hurt. _

Steve scratched out the two sentences, his numb hand gripping the pencil stub. He barked out a cough, spitting out something green and ugly into a tissue. It happened every winter. Every winter his lungs rattled, they ached, and he would take hot showers and drink tea and wait it out. The only time he felt better was when Bucky would crawl into his bed, and warm up the sheets.

 

_ “Shit Steve, you’re freezing! How are you not made of ice?” _

_ “Shut up.” _

 

He would rub his calloused palm on Steve’s back for hours, easing away the pain. Even when his lungs didn’t hurt as much, Bucky still insisted on doing it.

Neither of them said a word when they woke up tangled around each other.

…

_ I killed someone today. He looked at me right before I shot him. Right in the chest. He died quickly. _

Bucky never sent that letter.

…

“Merry Christmas Bucky.”

Steve downed three shots of whiskey without blinking and then fell asleep in the rickety chair in the kitchen. He dreamt of shared woolen blankets and presents wrapped in newspaper, and a hand holding his tightly.

…

Bucky spent Christmas in the field hospital, biting a leather belt as someone pulled a bullet from his leg. There was so much blood, and it mixed with the snow.

He almost laughed at the image; red blood, white snow, and green uniforms. _ How fucking festive. _

…

_ When will you come back? _

…

_ As soon as I can. _

…

All he saw were the letters KIA glaring at him from the piece of paper.  _ KIA. Killed In Action. _

 

“Private Barnes listed you as his next of kin.”

 

Steve nodded, a buzzing sound growing in his ears. He felt strangely detached from the whole situation.

Later, he found himself holding a metal box of what they said were Bucky’s belongings. Steve didn’t bother looking inside. Whatever was in there, it wasn’t Bucky’s. Bucky didn’t have belongings.

…

_ Please tell me this is some sick joke. _

…

The day of the funeral was sunny. Bees flocked to the flowers someone had brought. Mother Nature was smiling. Steve was not.

There were strangers in uniforms everywhere. Some said they knew him. But they didn’t. Only Steve had known Bucky. Only he had known that if Bucky couldn’t sleep, he needed some warm milk with sugar, that he liked to drink red wine if he could, but would settle for vodka, that he still kept a piece of his baby blanket in his shoe for good luck. Steve suddenly wondered if he had taken the baby blanket fragment with him when he left, or if he had put it somewhere in the apartment. He didn’t want to know. It was better, not knowing.

...

The coffin was empty. There was nothing left to put in it.

…

Steve got home and cried until salt covered his cheeks and he had forgotten how to breathe. He sat in the shower until the water went from scalding to freezing, and then sat outside with wet hair. Even though it was spring, it was cold enough that it would probably rile up his lungs again. He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

…

Steve died a month later, alone in his apartment. They found him curled in on himself, dried blood crusted on his blue lips. The autopsy declared pneumonia as the culprit.

…

_ Bucky...Bucky...please. Come back. I’m alone. _

Everything was fuzzy and tinged with black. His entire body was on fire, but he felt like ice. A fever. What did you do with fevers? What did Bucky do? He coughed, choking on burning metallic liquid. Blood.

_ Everything hurts. _

_ It’s okay, I’m here. _

The bed dipped and a strong hand started rubbing his back in rhythmic circles.

_ I love you. _

_ I love you too. _


End file.
